Prisoner of a Phantom
by musicxnotes3
Summary: Sam Manson never expected to find the mansion at the edge of town, much less go into it. But after being chased in a deadly storm, she's forced to take shelter inside. Phantom decides to keep the fearless and intriguing girl, much to her dismay. While Sam tries to uncover the mysteries of a tragedy, Phantom remains adamant to keep them hidden. Danny/Sam AU
1. Prologue

_**A/N: Hey guys!  
>So I made this new fic, but I have not abandoned Save Your Heart just yet. I'm just at a temporary inspiration loss for it. I'll come back to it eventually.<strong>_

_**But for now, this is my new fic Prisoner of a Phantom!**_

_**It's an AU, dark!Danny, very loosely based off of Beauty and the Beast.**_

_**I'm not sure how far I'm going to go with it, so please let me know if I should keep going!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

Sam Manson loved the rain.

It was fitting too, since she was a goth.

She loved all things dreary, all things dark. She preferred the rain over the sun. She preferred deep hues of blacks and purples over bright pinks and blues. She embraced the dark, embraced the differences and mystery it contained.

But that's not why she loved the rain.

If you asked her, she'd never tell you why she _really _loved the rain. It was totally, completely un-goth, something you'd never expect since it was, after all, rain. But she didn't love the rain because it was dark, or because it was dreary.

No, she loved it because of its elegance. She loved the art it produced, the sense of nature taking care of her earth. She loved that it was complicated, that the amount of rain had to be just right, lest all of creation die should the balance be thrown off. It was a delicate system, and it was perfectly upheld. One could suppose this was why she loved plants; it was her way of playing mother nature, and she rejoiced in taking part of the beauty.

More than that, she simply loved the smell, the sounds, the very idea appealing to all her senses.

Which was why she wouldn't be able to tell you why she was running through it that fine day in September, when the leaves that just started to fall and the smells, the sounds, the feeling, were that much more exquisite.

"Where you going, goth girl?" A jock called behind her, his feet tromping through puddles so close to her she could feel the tiniest bit of a splash on her leg.

She ignored him, concentrating solely on running away rather than trash-talking. Although, had the circumstances been different, she would by no means mind tearing them a new one.

Paulina had dropped behind long ago, her voice breathy and exhausted. She claimed it was because she didn't want to ruin her perm, but honestly, her hips were looking a bit _too _big these days. Having everyone do everything for her had certainly begun to take it's toll.

_Karma, _Sam snorted.

But Dash and his gang were football players. They ran twice this fast and twice this distance every day. They could easily keep up, and they could just as easily break her down. The thought kept her moving, her combat boots pounding against the wet pavement.

Sam wasn't really a runner, in fact, by this point pure adrenaline was fueling her stamina, and it was only a matter of time until it ran out.

"Come on, we promise we won't hurt you!" Another one added, though it was anything but convincing, clearly it's purpose was only to mock her.

She was just thankful she hadn't tripped like in movies.

But that didn't mean she wasn't slowing down. She needed somewhere to go, somewhere to hide where they wouldn't dare step foot.

And, is if sensing her thoughts, it appeared, like it hadn't been there centuries before.

It may have appealed to many buyers, it's classic white victorian design enchanting her on the spot, but she could see why people strayed, why it had been neglected. The pillars on the front porch were swallowed up by ivy and vines, twisting and winding around the fairy tale structure. The front porch had dulled, it's pure white color dimmed to a dirty grey. But nonetheless, it held a fascinating allure, pieces of the mansion still beautiful like they hadn't aged a day. One of which was, ironically, a lovely and brand new looking garden. Bushes were shaped like mythical creatures, flowers were vibrant colors despite the time of year, and the grass was a country house green. Stain glass windows lit up in the lightning that passed, furthering her plan that this house was made for her. It was made to be her hideout.

It's appearance hardly bothered her, she liked the dark and the dreary, and besides this

this 5 floor mansion looked like it had a story to tell. She glanced to make sure the tall, iron black gate was unlocked.

While it may frighten off the pack of carnivorous dogs chasing her, it wouldn't be able to scare her off.

But the strange thing was, that the closer she got, the creepier the mansion became. It was not the appearance that was frightening to her, it was the _feeling _it emanated. It _felt _dark, it _felt _dreary, and she wasn't sure why suddenly, they both felt so petrifying. They'd never bothered her before.

The rain pelted the street, painting the cement a darker color. The sound was calming, singing her anxieties to sleep as she quickened her pace. She felt a hand reach for her, far too close for comfort. It nearly had her, just missing her by a hair. She could feel herself slowing, like you would in a bad dream. She could never move fast enough.

So she decided, against her growing fears, that the mansion was meant for her. She no longer had time to continue running, she needed a hideout, and what better alternative? Besides, it was only a house, and it was perfect for her anyway. She imagined smelling the rich, red roses growing beyond the gate and running her fingers along the smooth, cool glass of the windows. She wouldn't have to stay long, just long enough for Dash and his band of idiots to disperse.

With new determination, she forced her feet to continue moving, turning onto the crooked path that led up the hill and into the courtyard. The deep orange and red bricks were cracked, but artfully arranged into a pattern. Dash and his pack slowed, momentarily stunned by the scary feeling that bloomed in the pits of all of their stomachs as soon as they stepped foot on the brick. But Sam was relentless, unfazed by the sense of warning. She fearlessly jogged on up the hill until she reached the gate. She stared only for a moment, which she convinced herself was purely to admire the graceful black swirls the tall iron bars twisted into.

She made sure to slam and lock the gate behind her, just in time for them to crash into it.

Their fists gripped and smashed against the metal, their faces poking through like feral dogs gnashing their teeth at fresh meat. She stood her ground, seemingly unaffected by their unpleasant display. Actually, she felt all that trash-talk from earlier she'd resisted flowing back.

"Have fun walking home in the rain." She commented, though a bit breathless, as she proudly displayed both of her middle fingers.

They cursed, yelling profanities at her back as she walked away.

"We'll get you Manson!" Dash yelled.

"Go to hell, goth freak!"

"I hope you get axe murdered in there!"

She smirked, taking their insults as a sign of their anger. They lost, and they were upset. Unable to resist herself, she turned, adding one last remark for her victory. "Not today assholes."

She marched up the path, her breathing rough and ragged. Without turning her head, she eyed the front garden in the courtyard. The plants, strange enough, did not even sway with the raging storm or fierce gusts of wind. One of them even seemed to glow, it's vines stretching further over the flower bed. She figured it must've been her mind playing tricks on her, after all, she did just have quite the workout.

Hesitantly, losing her triumphant strut, she stepped up the creaky front porch. She glanced around, noticing things she hadn't before, like the old, cobwebbed porch swing, violently shaking in the storm. Weeds gathered and clung to the porch, crawling up to the door but stopping halfway. But that wasn't the eerie part. The eerie part was the scattered and broken weapons, piled up in different places. They looked strange, almost futuristic, not your ordinary hand gun.

She half-wished she could just camp out on the porch, it was long enough. But the storm was growing, not settling, which insinuated that it was going to last all night, and she was not looking forward to catching hypothermia.

Once again, the house seemed to read her mind.

The door opened with a groan, an invitation she was in no place to refuse.

Gathering up with what was left of her courage, she continued to push it open, peering inside before stepping in.

Her limbs ached with the immense amount of energy she'd used, her thoughts limited to rest and water.

"Hello?" She called dubiously, water dripping from my body and leaving a trail as she walked about the house.

Thunder boomed outside, vibrating through the house. She flinched slightly, glancing around uncertainly.

The mansion was old, and unlike hers, held much darkness. The only light came from the flashes of lightning, and it was hardly enough time to gain knowledge of her surroundings. The structure of the rooms was also, thanks to her parents, strikingly different from her own gigantic house. While her parents decked out their mansion with pinks and light blues, this one was filled with deep, royal reds, purples and greens. The tapestries and the patterns oozed a sense of elegance and high status.

Sculptures and rich, detailed paintings decorated the walls, their shadows coming to life in the brief, white flashes.

Sam shivered, though whether or not it had come from her soaked body or the house itself was hard to determine. She stumbled into what felt like a living room, a fireplace revealed with a flare of lightning.

Running into a tall armchair, she maneuvered over to the fireplace, her only guidance the brief flashes of light the storm offered.

When she reached it, she felt around for a book of matches she thought she'd seen from across the room. It was perched on the stone lining, like someone had been expecting her.

She felt a chill go down her spine at the thought, goosebumps erupting on her arms.

Nevertheless, she lit a match, too afraid to look around. She went onto her knees to throw it into the fireplace, which was stacked with fresh, dry wood. She stared questioningly at it, her mind drifting away with confusion. The mansion was supposed to be abandoned, so why did it look like it wasn't? The garden looked tended, and, aside from the dust, things seemed… Cared for.

The match was reaching the end, and the burn brought her back to reality. She gasped, dropping it just as it went out. Rolling her eyes at herself, she lit up another, this time wasting no time to throw it in the fire.

The wood lit almost instantly.

She could have sworn the flames were green, if only for a second.

But aside from that, one would expect that it would take a minute or two. If she wasn't skeptical before, she was now.

Still, the warmth that filled the room was an immediate relief for the chill in her limbs. She sighed, leaning back on her arms.

She could see things more clearly now, and one detail stood out more than the rest in the room. There, above the fireplace, was a painting. A boy… He looked young, 14 or 15, with striking, cerulean blue eyes that clashed with his raven black hair. Overall, he had quite an attractive face.

A floorboard creaked behind her, making her jump and snap her head to where it had come from. There was no one.

Still, she continued to stare, as if challenging the invisible being to make one more move.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the face she could see peeking from behind the wall.

"Who's there?" She demanded, momentarily forgetting she was the one trespassing.

"You shouldn't be here." A shaky, but warning voice responded.

"Who are you?" She got to her feet, standing ready for any threat. She wasn't much, but she packed quite the punch.

"Nobody." The voice said, "But you really should go."

Slowly, cautiously, she stepped closer to the voice. "Well, I can't really go anywhere. See the storm?"

The voice laughed humorlessly. "That storm is the least of your worries. Now go."

She was close now, just a few steps away. "Not until you tell me who you are!"

She grabbed him by the shoulder, glaring into his light blue eyes. He was dark skinned, a terrified look on his face.

The candles all around them were lit by a neon green flame.

"You've done it now." The dark skinned boy warned, "Now it's too late."

She looked around, visibly shaken by the impossible display. "Are you the one who's doing this?"

The boy shook his head sadly. "No. If I were, we both wouldn't be here."

Her eyes widened, her hands shaking in terror. This boy looked like he'd seen it all before, sympathy in his blue-green eyes as he put a hand on her shoulder.

The stairs creaked, and although Sam's response to the sound was immediate, the boy looked like he knew it was coming, keeping his eyes locked on the girl's face and stepping away from her.

She clenched her fists, her body reacting to 'fight or flight' responses. There was no where to run; the storm was raging, and Dash and his crew were sure to be waiting for her back in town. If she was going to go out, she was going to go out with a fight.

"Who are you?" She ordered, her voice booming through the large house.

A low, dark chuckle was her only response. It made her bones chill. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up with every step the figure took, his presence igniting a sense of fear she'd never known before inside of her.

She swallowed, a reaction to her nervousness. "Tell me who you are!"

"That's bold of you," A silky, male voice answered casually. A tremor of alarm coursed through her body, her face contorting in fright as he came down the stairs.

He smirked at her, seeming quite boyish despite his physical appearance. "You're the one trespassing, you know."

She gripped her damp black and green skirt. She looked down, not wanting to show him the obvious intimidation she was feeling.

She could feel his eyes trailing up and down her body, judging her. She was used to judgment at this point, but it was the _way _he judged her. He was looking at her as if he was amused, trying to decide if she was worth keeping alive. He was literally determining her fate, some sick way of playing god.

"You're the one who left the door open." She remarked, angry with herself for sounding weaker than she wanted. She had learned that people don't like conflict, and if she made it seem like she wasn't an easy target, maybe he'd let her go.

But there was no one here to notice what he could do, and even if he did do it, he wouldn't get caught.

He laughed openly now, watching her flinch at the sudden loud noise in the quiet house. "How could I not?" He said, composing himself, "It's not often we get guests."

She glanced up at him, slowly, but she had to do a double take. He was… Inhuman, to say the least. His eyes, though beautiful, were glowing a toxic green. His hair, bearing some resemblance to the boy in the painting, was a snowy white. His figure was tall, more muscular, but not painfully so. Despite the oddness of his features, she found him rather beautiful.

He met her stare head on, his head raised slightly, arrogantly, like he was above her. "What's your name?" He inquired.

She narrowed her eyes. "I asked you first."

His smirk grew. "Overruled. You're the trespasser here."

"I thought I was a guest." She challenged.

He gazed at her solemnly, so long that she thought he was going to kill her. His eyes, though beautiful, were unforgiving, hard and lacking any certain emotion.

She was more than relieved when his lips curved into a smile, a rich chuckle falling from his lips.

"Alright," He said, "Fair enough."

She had to force herself from smiling, a sense of pride swelling in her chest.

"Most people call me Phantom, the owner of this estate." He motioned to the dark skinned boy, who was standing awkwardly to the side. "That is the caretaker, a friend of mine, Tucker Foley."

She was quiet, nodding at Tucker, who made no move to acknowledge her back.

Phantom smirked. "Your turn."

Feeling bold, she did a mock curtsey. "Most people call me 'goth freak', but you can call me Sam."

"Sam," He repeated, her name sounding better from him than anyone else, "Much more unique than 'goth freak', but it is a bit boyish, don't you think?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's short for Samantha, but I _prefer _you call me Sam."

"I think," He began, stepping down the final stairs to her, "Samantha is prettier."

She stepped back defensively. "I don't like it."

He grinned at her obvious distrust. He shared a glance with Tucker before returning his firey gaze to her. "You're entertaining."

She scoffed. "I'm _what_?"

To her shock, he floated to her, standing just a couple inches away. She was still trying to adapt to the situation, her eyes staring at his feet disbelievingly. She'd barely realized he'd started talking again until his gloved hand was pulling her chin up.

"You amuse me." He said, his glowing green eyes glinting.

She was lost for a few moments, his eyes hypnotizing. But the reality was, Phantom was dangerous, and she shouldn't have been in that mansion that September day.

She brushed his hand away. "I'm not meant for your amusement, Phantom."

"Oh but you are," He argued, "You see, Samantha, you're the first one in _years _to step foot in my mansion. That's not just a coincidence."

She clenched her teeth, trying her best to remain unaffected by his words. "I was just trying to find a place to hide. And I told you, I prefer to be called Sam."

"Were you? And you can prefer all you want, but I like Samantha better." He argued, his voice slow and captivating.

She glared at him, silently demanding he keep his distance. "I'm sure you noticed the pack of mutts chasing me?"

"Yes, why were they chasing you?" He questioned slyly, stepping forward with a taunting smirk.

She glowered at him, pointedly staring at his feet to display her discomfort. "I don't think that's really your business."

"Isn't it?" He countered, growing closer.

She stepped back once again, her fierce eyes never leaving his. "No, it isn't."

"You're staying in my home," He said, "I think I deserve to know why you're here."

"Who said I'm staying?" She replied skeptically, taking another step back.

He followed her every move without hesitation. "You think I'm just going to let you leave?"

She stepped into a chair, nearly toppling over. "You can't make me stay."

He laughed humorlessly. "I can't? And why's that? You've got so many people looking for you back home?"

"Actually yes," She lied, "And as soon as the rain stops they'll come find me."

He stared at her threateningly, an amused glint in his eyes. He grabbed her arm, pulling her close enough for him to whisper in her ear. "You're a terrible liar, Sam."

Her heart raced, her feet wanting to bolt so badly but not having the strength to. She'd been through so much today, and all she wanted to do was lay down.

"Are you going to kill me?" She asked, her voice quivering ever so slightly.

"Kill you?" He scoffed, "I told you Sammy, I think you're entertaining."

"Besides," He ran his hand down her arm, making her shiver in the process. "You're my guest."

Sam Manson loved the rain.

But right then, she was certain it did not love her back.

It had cursed her into a fate worse than death.

It cursed her into a fate that made her the prisoner of a ruthless Phantom.

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><p><em>Review?<em>

_Should I continue?_


	2. Chapter 1: Pink is Disgusting

_GUYSSS~_

_I feel so blessed!_

_I'm sorry this chapter took so long, but you'll be getting a little bit of a peek at what led to the events in the rain._

_**Special thanks to:**_

_ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome_

_too enigmatic 2 b urs_

_Guest_

_eve_

_Guest_

_ZoneRobotnik_

_NastyZombieMold_

_Krystallee_

_elnine27_

_crazyreader11_

_lotrfangirlfangorn_

_Kndle gurl_

_Guest_

_Angel3687_

_CSIalchemist_

_**Thanks for the reviews!**_

_And for the favs and follows! I would write all of you guys out too, but it's late, so I may just PM you if you're up for it!_

_Speaking of which, any time you guys feel like fangirling, I would by no means mind if you PM me. I always like making friends:)_

_Okay, rant over._

_Have fun kids!_

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><p><em><strong>Prisoner of a Phantom: Chapter 1<strong>_

_She glanced between him and the stairs, a fakeout that was poorly constructed. _

_Screw the storm, she couldn't stay, especially not with him looking at her like that. _

_Phantom, nevertheless, took the bait and looked back at the stairs, distracting him just long enough for Sam to bolt to the door, her feet blistered and screaming at her to just stop running. Her body was in turmoil, but her mind persisted, pushing her to her goal. She swung the door open, but felt no incredible wind. She figured the storm must've stopped in her panicked state._

_She rushed down the stairs, skipping a few and nearly tripping. She kept her eyes firmly on the tall gate, missing a stone that stuck out and toppling to the ground face first. She caught herself on her hands, but her knees stung, her purple tights had ripped. _

_She pushing herself up from her hands, which were also, now stinging and begging for her to just lay down. _

_But she was determined, a woman on a mission, so she rushed to the gate, pulling on it with all her strength._

_But it did not budge. _

_The gates rocked back and forth, kept together by an unknown force._

_She shouted at herself in frustration, yanking harder and begging for them to open._

_She was falling._

_Falling towards the ground, slowly, like her legs were just losing the strength to keep her up. She kept her hands fisted around the black bars of the gate, though they had lost the firmness of their hold, like a person falling asleep._

_She was on her knees, then laying on her back, her head falling against the brick painfully. _

_The last thing she noticed was the storm._

_The rain was still as crazy as ever, but somehow, it hadn't even touched the house._

_Nothing had, not the winds or the lightning, like there was some invisible dome protecting them from harm._

_The rain fell down outside the gates, but was missing the mansion._

_A shield._

_An invisible one. _

_That's why she hadn't noticed the mansion before._

_Because as far as she knew, it wasn't there._

_She felt arms lift her at the waist, carrying her like a princess, but she couldn't struggle against the figure. She was powerless, extremely so, and now she was a prisoner._

_A single tear fell from her lavender eye._

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><p>Sam Manson bolted upright in a dark room, lit dimly by the moonlight.<p>

She took a moment to calm her pounding heart.

She furrowed her brow, confused temporarily by the setting.

The first thing she noticed that was horribly, exceedingly wrong, was that her black preference of clothing was missing. Instead, she was in a rosy pink (god forbid), flimsy nightgown that left little to the imagination. The ends were lacy, the chest a heart shape with white frills. She scowled. Everything below her very, _very _upper thigh was sheer. The nightgown cut off at midthigh, poofing out like a princess dress. Pink ribbons worked as spaghetti straps, and pink bows were spewed all over.

Overall, the dress felt physically draining.

Oh, she'd get that Phantom for this.

The pink was an awful choice, and she knew it was impossible for him to not know that she hated the color. How could he not, with her raven hair and dark clothing? She'd mentioned that she was a goth, which led her to the conclusion that he'd put her in this nightgown purely to get on her nerves.

_Put her in, _she gaped at the thought. She was unconscious, powerless, and he'd seen her naked! A violent, scarlet blush erupted on her face.

Phantom _changed _her clothes!

Throwing the covers off of her in a rage, she was ready to give him a piece of her mind.

But then she saw the bandages.

Carefully wrapped around her knees, her ankles, her hands. They weren't so tight that it was painful, but tight enough that they were helpful. He must've been attentive, diligent in the job. She ran her fingers along the wrappings, gingerly feeling where the clasp held it all together.

She briefly wondered if it was him or Tucker that did all the work.

_Probably Tucker_.

Phantom didn't seem like the type to do all this, after all, wasn't Tucker the butler or something?

Aside from the atrocious attire she was in, despite the bandages, her body ached. She was tempted to stay in bed for the remainder of the evening and give Phantom a piece of her mind some other night.

The bed was lovely, dare she say, even lovelier than the one she had in her own mansion. But she could hardly call her mansion a mansion now that she'd been in here.

Phantom's mansion was just short of a castle, with 5 floors, a basement and an attic.

The sheets were adorned with purple ivy patterning, with a white foundation that complimented the fine and intricate design.

Next to her was a nightstand, a shiny mahogany wood with bronze handles to open drawers. On it was a vintage lamp, your typical yellow with an ivory base. She pulled on the chain to turn on the light.

Glad that lighting was an option in the nineteenth century manor, she finally had the opportunity to get a firmer look at the room.

The walls were a deep red, with black swirls lining through. The rug matched the walls, a very stylish the whole room. She wondered if Phantom was the one who decorated, or if he'd bought it all himself. She wouldn't expect this kind of decor from someone like him, she just didn't get that vibe from him.

A single, elegant armchair sat in the room by the window, a white vanity table with a mirror not far by.

There was a large wardrobe, but she was dreading its contents. She decided against going near it until she 'spoke' to Phantom.

She stepped across the room, the marble tiles cold against her weary feet. She shivered with each step.

The door opened with a loud creak, the sound echoing in the room and the halls in the silent night.

She made sure to poke her head out first, just in case someone may have been wandering the corridors. Perhaps she wasn't hiding, but should she not be allowed to leave her room she wasn't going to advertise it. And besides, she'd hardly want anyone to see her in her somewhat racy outfit.

She wasn't sure why she chose to go upstairs; maybe it was because the view would have been appealing. Either way, she dashed across the hall and to the carpeted staircase, her hands scanning the walls for a lightswitch.

The 4th floor, she guessed, had 4 rooms and a long corridor. Straight ahead, next to a black dresser, was a door frame with another staircase inside of it. Yanking her barbaric 'dress' down, she went on to the next flight of stairs. Halfway up the stairs, she realized that pulling the ends of the dress down would only make the top part lower, the heart-shaped cut showing more cleavage.

She clenched her teeth, fire building in her veins. Yes, Phantom would definitely get a piece of her mind.

"I swear to everything that is holy the second I-"

She ran right into the object of her ire, nearly falling over with the force.

"Samantha." Phantom said, his eyes glinting in amusement. "I didn't think you'd be up."

Sam was momentarily stunned by the sight of him, his eyes glowing a neon green in the night.

His eyes traced her figure hungrily, a wolfish grin on his face that gave her chills in all the right ways.

She just stared for a while, her brain trying to adapt to this foreign situation. Boys typically didn't look at her like he was.

She remembered why he was looking at her at way in the first place.

"You!" She snarled, pointing a sharp finger into his chest.

"Yes, me." He replied smugly.

"This outfit is disgusting!" She shouted, motioning to the offending pink fabric.

"Actually, I think it looks especially… Appealing on you." He said suggestively.

Her eyes went wide. "You are _the _most-"

"_The most _what? The most generous? I think so." He said in counter, though whether or not he was actually angry was something she couldn't determine. "I give you dry clothes and you complain about the color?"

"Yes!" She yelled, "I told you I'm _goth_!"

He tsked softly. "Not exactly. You told me that some call you 'goth freak', you never told me you were actually a goth."

"Are you trying to tell me that you are so lacking in intelligence that you couldn't tell by the black clothes and the 'goth freak' that I'm goth?" She said in a low voice.

"Come on Sammy, I think that nightgown suits you." He said softly, touching a strand of her hair.

She froze. "Pink doesn't suit me."

His eyes fell to her chest, a wild smirk on his face. "I beg to differ."

She stomped on his foot, her hand fisting the material of his hazmat suit. "Don't beg." She growled.

He narrowed his eyes. "You should be grateful to me."

"Grateful?" She snorted.

He gripped the hand she had on him, tearing it away effortlessly but not releasing it. "Yes, grateful."

He got closer, and like before, each step he took closer, she took one back. Soon, he had her backed into a wall, with her hands above her head.

The position made her quite uncomfortable, but as much as she struggled, he had the upper hand. She stared into his glowing green eyes, if her body couldn't fight him, her mind would.

"I gave you a place to stay during the storm, a place to hide from your troubles. I gave you dry clothes so you wouldn't catch a cold. I gave you a bed to sleep in. And if all that wasn't enough, I bandaged your wounds." He said in a dark voice. "I could have left you outside, I could have let you get caught, I could have locked you away in the basement, I could have done lots of things differently but I chose to help you. And you don't even have the decency to thank me."

He sneered at her, but she was stubborn. She kept her head high.

"I _wanted _to leave." She argued, struggling against his grip. "_You _wouldn't let me. _You_ are making me stay here. And you expect me to believe that _you _did all of those things? Don't act like I don't know Tucker did them. I'm not incompetent."

"Tucker," He began, abruptly releasing her, "Only does what I say. If he was the one who helped you, it was on my orders."

She rubbed her wrist, hoping she wouldn't have more bruises on her body. "I thought he was your friend."

"He is." Phantom confirmed light-heartedly.

"Then how come you treat him like a slave?" Sam questioned sharply, her trademark scowl pointed right at him.

Phantom paused, freezing like a statue if only for a moment. She almost thought she'd gotten to him. "Don't make judgements on things you know nothing about."

"I know-"

"What you know is what I let you know. Stop snooping around here, and stay out of things that have nothing to do with you." He countered ominously.

She simply watched him, the mystery that shrouded his character somewhat alluring. He was curious, and it was difficult for her to determine whether or not he was evil. Perhaps things in the mansion were not as easy as black or white.

"I'll strike a deal with you, Phantom." She said boldly, crossing her arms.

White teeth glinted in a smirk. "You think you have something I want?"

"You want me to stop refusing what you ask. You want my obedience." She replied, the words stinging her pride despite them being her own.

He met her gaze head on. "Do I?"

"Yes," She said confidently, "And I can promise that I'll be as compliant as I possibly can, but in return I want information."

"Information?" He repeated skeptically.

"Yes." She said, taking a deep breath. "I want to know about the explosion."

A lingering, tense pause passed between the two.

Sam was nervous, wondering if her request was too much.

But she knew he was there, she recognized his snow white hair. Phantom was one of the ghosts present the day her parents, and several other families were crushed with loss when a deadly explosion happened in the Nasty Burger fast food restaurant in town. That explosion changed Sam's life.

Phantom stayed silent, though she questioned whether or not it was in contemplation or outright shock.

"I know you know what I'm talking about," She continued, "You were there. I saw you."

She carefully made her way to him, where his back was turned. He was making an effort to hide his face,

"You don't have to tell me all of it, I just.. I need to know how it happened, who did it. I need to know who killed my parents, who killed the Fentons and the Foleys and the Grays." Sam pleaded in desperation.

"What if I were to tell you it was me?" Phantom said in a strangled voice, suddenly turning on her before she could even flinch. "What if I were to tell you I was the one who planted the deadly bomb that killed all those people?"

Sam gaped at his sudden declaration, but she was unconvinced. She was fairly certain he was the one who pulled Jazmine Fenton and a few others out of the building.

"I'd say I don't believe you." She confessed.

Phantom looked touched, if only for a moment, a softening in his features that she hadn't seen before. A light seemed to go on behind his eyes, one she could nearly call hope.

But just as soon as it came, it was snuffed out.

"Then maybe you are incompetent." Phantom said coldly.

And then he was gone, taking the chill that he carried with him.

But despite his cold demeanor, she could tell she was getting somewhere. She was going to find out what happened that day, whether he liked it or not.

* * *

><p><em>Hey guys!<em>

_Sorry for the late update!_

_It was a very busy week, and I have had few moments at my computer._

_But I'm flattered by all the feedback, and I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!_

_Have a great Thanksgiving!_


	3. Chapter 2: Shrimp

_Thanks for everything, guys!_

_And not just half-heartedly, I mean it. You guys inspire me and push me to work harder. I'm so lucky to have such great readers!_

_Seriously, I was so iffy about this story before, but now I have so many plot points and such. _

_Excuse my tardiness on the update, but come on, I've done way worse before :)_

_**Chapter 2: Shrimp**_

* * *

><p>"<em>Samantha Manson, please report to the office immediately. Samantha Manson to the front office." The secretary's voice said over the PA.<em>

_Sam felt blessed to be called out of class, honestly, she hated it. Kids behind her would throw paper at her, or make annoying comments and it just wasn't fun, especially when Mr. Lancer was teaching Calculus. _

_But it felt different._

_For one thing, she wasn't even in class. School had ended an hour ago; it was 3:45PM, and Sam was sitting in the library._

_The school didn't actually close until 5, and her parents knew where she was. There was no logical reason as to why she was being called to the office. _

_Her parents were very much focused on her getting straight A's and going to a prestigious college where she would learn business and become a successful company manager. Her being at the library usually meant she was studying, finishing up assignments, or reading gothic novels. Her parents never minded that before._

_So, bottom line was, something was wrong. She knew it as she walked through the dead silent halls, her only company the tapping of her combat boots and the hum of the heaters._

_You don't know the worst day of your life until you live it._

_You wake up, carrying on your typical routine that becomes so engraved into your mind you could just auto-pilot the whole morning. Then, something shifts._

_The shift is subtle, and it works slowly like a python, winding around your body til you're suffocating._

_Sam Manson was suffocating in those halls, the shift becoming more and more clear the closer she came to the pristine and refined school office. Something was wrong, she admitted as she stepped through the office and was pointed to the conference room._

_The conference room always meant trouble._

_The dean of students, the principal, and a couple police officers sat around a large, oval table._

_The panic that accompanied the shift had begun to set in._

_She hadn't done anything wrong, in fact, she'd done everything opposite. She'd been so boring that she'd be completely unnoticed if she hadn't dressed the way she did._

_Guardedly, she slowed as she reached the table. The small crowd had solemn looks on their faces, the principal's hands folded in front of her, resting on the glossy wooden table._

"_Have a seat, Samantha." She said gravely._

_Sam did as she asked, keeping eye contact. "What's going on?" She questioned skeptically. _

_The dean and the principal shared a look that frightened Sam more than anything. The dean nodded at the principal before saying, "Samantha, we're afraid something unfortunate has happened."_

_She held her breath. _

"_It is with our outmost sympathies and regrets that we report that an accident has occurred today at the Nasty Burger. Unfortunately, a bomb was planted in the restaurant, and many lives were taken…" She paused, collecting herself and studying Sam's face. "Including the lives of your parents."_

_Sam had once read a book by a german author on psychology, and the well known stages of grief._

_According to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book "On Death and Dying", there are five stages of normal grief._

_The first is denial and isolation. "W-what do you mean there was a bomb? How? Why would a suicide bomber target the Nasty Burger of all places?"_

_Denial is a defence mechanism to buffer the shock and rationalize overwhelming emotions._

_The principal stared at her folded hands, looking quite uncomfortable. She glanced up at a police officer for guidance._

_The police officer, whose badge read Douglas, cleared his throat. "Well we're unsure. As far as we know, it was not a suicide bomber. The explosive was planted in the basement with a count down. As of right now, we're doing the absolute best we can to find the culprit and put him behind bars. The mayor is making a public statement tonight at 7."_

_The second is anger. "So this guy walked in, planted a bomb, kept it there and nobody noticed?!" She banged on the table, abruptly coming to her feet as if the chair was set on fire. "What about witnesses? Are you even trying?"_

_Anger happens when the false reality created by denial and isolation begins to fade, leaving a painful, hard truth. Anger can be directed at anyone or anything, ranging from strangers, to loved ones, to inanimate objects, to the deceased themselves._

_The group flinched slightly. It felt awkward a moment as Sam composed herself, removing her angry fist from the table. The principal cleared her throat softly, pointedly glancing between Sam and the chair._

_Somewhat ashamed, Sam came back to earth and took a seat._

_The police officer continued cautiously. "We're not sure how long the bomb was there before it went off. It could've been minutes, it could've been hours."_

_The third stage is bargaining. "If I had gotten there sooner… We can save them, right? M-maybe they're not really dead."_

_Bargaining is when one feels the need to regain control from the sudden vulnerability, whether to a higher power or other. It is an attempt to postpone the inevitable._

_The police officer shook his head sadly, his brown eyes large with sympathy. It would seem that he knew the stages well, as one would expect in his line of work. "There were few survivors. The explosive was sudden, powerful, it destroyed half of the block, it was a miracle that some even made it out."_

_The rest anyone said was tuned out, her mind occupied with the sudden grief hitting her hard enough that she could no longer process words. _

_It was all one big blur, their words, their touches, nothing making a difference. Sam had neglected to thank her parents, she'd neglected to do a lot of things with them, for them, to them, and now all she was left with were her crushing regrets._

_But this was where the case became all the more interesting. Rather than continuing to move past her grief, Samantha Manson held onto it, tightly, like a safety blanket. It was rare, a case that usually only happened to a special few… And they ended up going insane, their grief driving them to the brinks of insanity. _

_She went backwards in her stages, knocking herself back down to anger. _

_And boy, was she angry._

_She needed someone to blame, someone to hate, and who better than the perpetrator of the crime?_

_Before another word was said, Sam bolted out of the office, out of the school, and made her way to the Nasty Burger._

_She had to see it for herself. _

* * *

><p>Sam rummaged through the kitchen in her now dry clothes, which she'd found on the bed once she came back to her room.<p>

The cupboards were scarce of food; not so much as a can of peas.

The fridge was clear, completely empty.

_I guess ghosts don't eat._

She sighed heavily, her stomach growling disappointedly.

"What are you doing?"

She turned quickly.

Tucker stared at her quizzically.

She visibly relaxed. "What does it look like? Don't you guys keep any food around here?"

Tucker smiled wistfully. "Not really."

Sam groaned and sat at the kitchen island, her face resting on her arm. "Don't you ever eat?"

Tucker sat across from her. "No need," He said simply.

"Then how do you get food? Don't you get hungry? When was the last time you had food in this joint?" Sam questioned fiercely, her stomach overpowering her rationality.

"I can't remember. I don't think we've ever had food here." Tucker replied.

"So, what? Do you like, order out or something?" She continued, aimlessly wandering around the counters. As expected of Phantom, there were no family photos or anything like that.

"No, I don't need to." He responded, more forceful this time.

"Well how could you not n-" She stopped mid-sentence.

_How could she have been so careless?_

Tucker smiled solemnly. He was usually doing that; smiling to cover up the pain behind his eyes. But it was hard, especially when the only company he'd had for a long time was Da- _Phantom_. It was a constant reminder of the old days, how much fun things used to be. It only made things worse.

He was always doing that; calling Phantom by his former name. It was a habit of his he was often condemned for. But he couldn't help himself. Part of him still craved those long, pointless days where they would sit in the Nasty Burger or play video games.

"Yeah," He said with a shrug, "Can't you tell? I'm a ghost."

He demonstrated by going intangible.

She was momentarily taken aback, worried her eyes were popping out of her head. "But I thought you were human. You look… Normal."

She stopped herself again. _Crap. _She was internally grilling herself for her utter lack of consideration or tact.

He re-materialized within the blink of an eye. "Yeah, that's because I'm not supposed to be here."

"You died in the explosion." She stated, not so much as a question since she already could see the answer. Many did, it was no surprise.

He nodded.

The atmosphere was tense a moment; she could feel the desperation in his soul, the misery. She had to know why, if not for her, then for him. He needed someone to talk to. She knew because she'd wished someone had been there to talk when she was miserable.

"So why haven't you found peace yet?" She inquired softly.

"Ghosts," He explained, "Have what you call obsessions. That's why I'm here."

She snorted. "If your obsession is Phantom, I'd say you're better off going to the other side."

He shook his head quickly. "No," He said, "Not Phantom. Someone… Else."

Sam's face lifted deviously. "Ohh," She said, "So it's a girl."

Tucker blushed. "Her name is Jazz."

"Jazmine Fenton?" Sam asked.

Tucker's face lit up with excitement. "You know her?"

"Heard of her," Sam corrected, "She's at the top of her class, president of student council, basically owns the school. She's a senior, so she's got everything happening right now."

Tucker's gaze looked far off, nostalgic. He looked like he was lost in a daydream, like an old man thinking of a long lost flame.

"She doesn't have a boyfriend," Sam continued, "I hear she refuses every guy, so the other ones just don't ask anymore. I think she's planning on going to Harvard University to be a scientist. I think she's doing to for her parents, to take after them. She lost everything in that explosion; her parents, her brother. Sometimes I see her after school in the hall, staring at the memorials."

Tucker's face was pained; he wished they didn't have to leave her, but Phantom couldn't save everyone. But at the mention of Danny, of the Fentons, he couldn't help the glint of familiarity and something else, something he missed in those long days.

"Did you know her brother?" Sam pried a little further.

Tucker paused a moment.

"You do love talking about the past, don't you Tucker?" Phantom voiced from the kitchen door. It was more threatening than friendly, and Tucker shied away like a fish in a shark tank.

Sam was immediately on her guard. "Phantom," She said with disdain and heavy sarcasm, "What a nice surprise."

"You should be nicer to me, Sammy," He replied, his chest so close she could almost feel it on her back, "Or maybe I won't get you food."

She elbowed behind her roughly, but found she was elbowing air. He was across from her.

The bastard used his ghost powers to make a fool out of her. Again.

"Fine then," He sighed mockingly, "I guess no food for you."

"No." She replied breezily. "You'll bring me food. Unless you want me to die."

"Sounds tempting." He smirked.

"That's funny, considering you're the one keeping me here." She said with a humorless laugh.

"Maybe I just like seeing you suffer." Phantom hissed, slaming a hand onto the countertop in front of her.

She turned and eyed him severely. "Believe me, you'll be the one suffering if you don't remove yourself from my vicinity."

"I'm getting tired of your petty attempts to scare me," He narrowed his eyes, "I'm a vengeful phantom; nothing scares me, especially not a shrimp like you."

"Shrimp?" She shouted, "_Shrimp?"_

"Oooh," Phantom said mockingly, "I think I hit a nerve."

"This '_shrimp' _could outrun an entire football team in a freaking hurricane! This '_shrimp' _could totally kick your ass if you weren't cheating all the time with your freaky ghost powers!" She shrieked at him.

Tucker sat awkwardly across from the pair, twiddling his thumbs and praying that Sam would quit. If she kept this up, Phantom would throw her head first into the ghost zone.

"Fine then," Phantom seethed, "I'm sure this _shrimp _could handle one more night without dinner."

And then he disappeared, as was his habit after a showdown.

* * *

><p>Sam had excused herself to what she was now assuming was supposed to be her room, which, shockingly, was bigger than her room at home by a bit.<p>

Trying to feel more at home, she had made a tent out of her bed, which she'd done in the past year. There, inside of her safety fort, she finally let herself cry.

It wasn't really a rare thing for her to do anymore, though before she used to abhor the idea of it. Now she'd grown attached, a sort of relief she'd waited for the whole day. Goth or no goth, she needed some way to feel better, and as of right now, a distraction from her insistent stomach.

Tucker peeked in through her tent.

She jumped at least 2 feet, flailing her arms and nearly falling off the bed.

Tucker laughed, a rich sound he'd almost forgotten was possible.

She glared at him as he clutched his stomach and doubled over in a fit of laughter.

Her glare was lost, replaced by a slow burning smile as he started to cry from amusement.

She threw a pillow at him. "Don't you ever knock?!"

He collected himself, giggling every now and then. "Man, I'm a ghost and I think that's the first time I've ever scared someone like that."

She smiled. "What? Not even on Halloween?"

"Can't. Da-" He scowled at himself. This was becoming a problem. He casually continued anyway, despite his lack of subtlety. "Phantom makes me stay on the grounds."

Sam frowned. "That cold hearted bastard won't let you leave either?"

He stuttered. "W-well not exactly. Most ghosts, when they're not supposed to be here, go a little…"

"Crazy," She completed for him, "Yeah, like whats-her-face."

"Ember." He corrected. "But luckily for me, there's a portal near by, so I don't have to go crazy."

"I see." She said, "But what about-"

"Jazz?" He said for her, "I can't see her. It would only make things worse."

Sam bit her cheek. "Well," She said sheepishly, "If you want, I can tell you about her."

Tucker's face lit up. "Really?"

"Sure, but I mean," She said, "I don't know how much I know."

"That's fine," He said quickly, "And in return I'll tell you about Phantom."

She snorted. "Please, I'm sure there's something more interesting than that dork."

He grinned. "I don't know, I think I see a budding romance."

"That asshole?" She replied, offended, "What am I? A masochist? Or just plain stupid?"

"If you say so." Tucker said with a wink.

"Tucker," Sam began slowly, "You wouldn't happen to remember anything? About the explosion, that is."

His eyes flashed. He swallowed; these were dangerous grounds to tread on. "A little."

Sam's eyes sparked with interest. "That's okay, just tell me what you know."

Tucker's smile drooped. "Sam, I don't know if I can. Why are you so interested."

She pursed her lips. Would it be safe to tell Tucker what happened? About her parents, her life? Could she trust him not to report everything back to Phantom?

She hoped so. "My parents died in that explosion."

Tucker's eyes widened. "Man, that sucks. I'm s-

"You don't have to say sorry," She interrupted, "I've heard it before. It's been 2 years; it's not as painful as it used to be. But I never got answers. The culprit was never caught. But you were there, maybe you saw something?"

She looked hopeful, and he felt guilty shutting her down. But he couldn't tell her; Phantom wouldn't have it. "Not really. It's kind of blurry."

She frowned. "Oh."

"But tell me other stuff," Tucker tried to redeem himself, "Maybe it'll refresh my memory."

Maybe if she told him enough, he could see how much he could tell her. Maybe he could strike a deal with Phantom. Sam was good people; she didn't deserve to be lied to like everybody else.

"I don't know many details," Sam began with a sigh, "I know that it happened shortly after school, that somebody planted a bomb. My parents were there meeting with old friends, business partners, the Greys. After the explosion, a lot of people died. When I finally got there, it was a… It was a nightmare. Things were on fire, there were firetrucks everywhere, neon yellow caution tapes, crowds of people and police officers holding them off. I managed to slip through, underneath a street block, but there wasn't much to see. A lot of the bodies were hidden by tarps, waiting to be taken to a morgue. Some of the bodies had to actually be collected, like they were in pieces. It was awful.

"I started looking around, but I still don't know for what, I guess I just wanted somebody to tell me why it happened, who did it, how it happened. But the only people I could ask was either Valerie Grey, Jazmine Fenton, Dash Baxter or Paulina Sanchez. But they all looked torn to pieces, parts burned, their clothes synged and crying their eyes out.

Paulina kept going on about the ghost boy, which honestly, I was so disgusted with because of the circumstance. She kept babbling on about how he saved them, and her stupid romance-y crap. Seriously, that girl can't keep herself in check even when a shitty thing like that happens.

I tried asking Jazz, but she was so deep in shock she couldn't form coherent words, just 'where did he go' over and over again. I guess she was talking about you."

Tucker was lost in his thoughts. "Oh, yeah, probably. So what happened after that?"

Sam shrugged. "Not much. The police put me and the other kids in a car and took us to the station. Jazz was sent to live with the mayor, Valerie was sent to live with Star, Paulina and Dash went home, and I went to live with my Grandma."

"Where's Jazz now?" Tucker asked urgently.

"I don't know," Sam said honestly, "I heard some people say she's emancipated, either that or she's living with some other quack. She's lucky the mayor disappeared; I heard the guy was a weirdo."

Tucked nodded. "Probably emancipated; Jazz always was mature."

Sam smiled. "She still is. She tutors a couple kids."

"Does she still tutor Dash?" He asked, a bit of an edge to his voice.

Dash always was kind of flirty, especially when he was being tutored by Jazz. But Sam decided to leave that part out and just give him a straight answer.

"Yes," She began, but quickly continued when she saw his fists clench, "But if he puts any moves on her she just leaves and he gets in trouble."

"Good." Tucker breathed. But then he furrowed his eyebrows. "How do you know all this?"

Sam looked down at her lap, feeling tears prick her eyes again. _How embarrassing_. "Because.." She said, taking a deep breath, "Because I live with the Baxters."

And suddenly, things made more sense.

* * *

><p><em>Review?<em>

_I was so self conscious about this chapter, I micro edited everything so many times. I feel like it sounds generic and tacky and that the plot is turning too fast. I still have a lot to cover, and I wanted to take it slower, but Tucker is Sam's only link to the explosion besides Phantom, and well, I think we all know she's not going to talk to Phantom._

_But I do really like the idea of Tucker and Jazz :)_

_Do things make more sense now?_

_Any questions, just PM me or leave them as a review and I'll answer them first thing next chapter!_


	4. Chapter 3: How She Lost Them

_**A/N: YAY! MORE PLOT!**_

_**Thanks to all my baes, and my new baes, who are reading, reviewing, favoriting and what not. I'm excited for the next chapter. I know this one is pretty short, but I'm so excited for the next one, so you'll probably get it today or tomorrow.**_

_**Warning: Some of the parts of this chapter may or may not be triggering; if any of you were extremely offended, disturbed, etc., let me know so i can change the rating.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 3: How She Lost Them<strong>_

_Sam stood in a destroyed lot, frantically looking around for answers._

"_Mom? Dad?" She called in her state of irrationality. _

_Stretchers and paramedics rushed all around, hoping to salvage people that were still, though hardly, breathing. Firetrucks, ambulances and police sirens blared in her ears, though the sounds were soon fogged out as her mind focused elsewhere._

_Most of the bodies had suffered from 2nd or 3rd degree burns, some even roasted to a crisp, their flesh black and their bones turned to ash. This was no ordinary, mediocre bomb; this was a full blown, huge explosive._

_So then how come nobody noticed it? _

_It just didn't make sense._

_Why target the Nasty Burger?_

_She searched for the answers, or clues, or something that could somehow tell her everything she'd missed, tell her that her parents lived or at least died happy. _

_And there, she spotted something out of the ordinary._

_In the hustle and bustle, a boy, no older than her, was sitting on the ground, his clothes torn and blisters forming on his skin._

_But glancing around, she realized he was her best chance._

_She dashed to him, falling to her knees. _

_Hesitantly, she touched his shoulder. Once, twice. _

_The third time he jumped, making her flinch backwards._

_His glazed, luminescent emerald eyes looked up, out of focus._

_She noticed things she hadn't before in her frantic state._

_For one thing, he wasn't bleeding your typical human blood._

_Green slime oozed out of his wounds, staining his black and white hazmat suit._

_His snow white hair was charred in places, the black a strong contrast to all the white._

_She stopped breathing, for just a second. He was a sight to behold indeed._

_He was beautiful, a marvel that she'd only seen in paintings or poetry. His pale skin was streaked with dirt and ash; her hands itched to wipe it away._

_But she knew better._

_She had seen beings like him before, though none quite as memorable. The ghosts that haunted Amity weren't so strikingly beautiful, all held a certain evil, or unholy desire that contorted their figures into something haunting. _

_But not him._

_Surprisingly, he was more human than ghost._

_He was.. A ghost that felt pain, sadness, emotions more profound and humanistic than wrath._

_She was speechless. _

"_I swear I tried to stop him. It wasn't my fault." He said quickly._

_Sam looked around, furrowing her brow and coming out of her trance. "I don't under-"_

"_He was fast. Don't you see? I couldn't control it!" He grasped her arms._

_His words registered in her mind. She found someone to answer her questions, to tell her about her parents. "Do you know what happened? Can you tell me?"_

_He shook his head manically. "I tried to help. I swear I did. But I couldn't! I didn't think he was going to do it!"_

_Sam persisted, shaking him in her own madness. "Who? Who did this? Tell me!"_

"_I didn't know this was going to happen!" He shouted at her, "If I did I would've done something sooner!"_

_His grip on her was bruising; it made her let go of him. She simply stared at him in shock and fear, words escaping her as she saw ghostly green smoke swirl in his eyes. They were like whispers, forbidden words in his ears that took form in his eyes. They do say the eyes are windows to the soul, _

_He stared, but not at her. It was far off, like a trance, and her questions were rendered useless to pull him out._

"_Please!" She begged helplessly._

_But he was already gone, gone to a place where she couldn't reach him._

_She watched, powerlessly, as something awful took place. Where she had once seen a beautiful humane structure of a being, now all she saw was a crumbling boy, one who was losing control._

_Something got to him, infecting his heart with his own thoughts and simply forcing him to giving up. But ghosts weren't supposed to feel in the first place. They weren't supposed to have hearts, only madness that grounded them to the place they died. She didn't want to imagine the kind of pain he must've had to endure, a ghost with a heart. How often that heart, and that madness, must've fought, and the toll it surely took on his sanity made her feel queasy. That's why she was partly glad that his heart was crumbling- at least he wouldn't be in pain anymore._

_She stared at him curiously, wondering how such a beautiful creature could be diminished to such a state._

_She saw something take charge, the winner of the battle, something illogical and unhealthy. The madness had taken the victory, and wherever his heart had gone, she was certain it was no longer even considered. It had surrendered, cowering to a place where it could no longer be hurt by the ghostly essence._

_Instinctively, she slowly released him, scooting away. _

_His eyes gleamed with insanity, like something out of a horror movie, a terrible, twisted cheshire grin contorting all sense of reality in that instance. There was the ghost she'd failed to see before -there was the ghost that she feared._

_His head turned slowly, that malicious grin fading and leaving behind an arrogant, corrupt spirit whose wrath was now focused on her. _

"_I-I-" Words failed her. She was conflicted on whether or not apologizing would be the right move; she hadn't done anything wrong, but she would like to live._

"_Shh," The ghost boy cooed, caressing her cheek. _

_She stared with wide eyes._

_Green glowed in the palm of his hand. _

"_Sleep," He said. _

_Power surged from his hands, a blast of something directed at her. It hit her where it hurt, close range, and in her head._

_Her vision was fading, her head wet and laying against the hard, rocky street. _

_The ghost stood by her, running his fingers up and down the side of her face._

"_My… Sammy." He whispered. _

_That was the last thing Sam Manson remembered before she collapsed to the floor from an ecto blast._

* * *

><p>"You got stuck living with those jerks?" Tucker snickered, partially disgusted.<p>

Sam exhaled. "Yeah, believe me, it was awful."

"Man, that's gotta bite. Please tell me you didn't have to share a room with Dash." Tucker joked.

Sam chuckled lightly. "No way, are you kidding? His parents wouldn't let me. They were worried he'd try something on me, and too worried I'd contaminate him or something."

"Woah," He exclaimed sarcastically, "You mean they know their son's not perfect?"

Sam snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"Well," Sam explained, "His dad is always yelling at him, and just kind of expects him to be this perfect kid. I hide in my room most of the time, with my headphones blasting so I don't have to listen. I don't know much about it, but his dad gets pretty violent sometimes and his mom just kind of watches. I've never seen anything like it.

"Some days, I could hear him yelling about stupid things like 'why didn't you take out the goddamn trash this morning?' or, 'i thought i told you to clean your room'" she mimicked his voice, "I haven't actually seen much, but sometimes, he hits him. Hard enough that I can hear it. And his mom just sits in the kitchen, filing her perfect nails. And she just sips her tea, like it's so ordinary for her husband to start shouting like that. Sometimes Dash would come home and start bragging about 'all the nerds he beat up', or 'how many touchdowns he scored', but it isn't enough for his dad, like he's trying to relive his wonder years through his son. It all just kind of sucks."

"That sounds like a nightmare." Tucker said sincerely.

"You have no idea. His mom is so oblivious it's no surprise Dash is rotten." She replied, rolling her eyes. "It was always, 'Oh honey, I wonder where all our liquor has gotten to!' or 'Honey, did Samantha stop listening to those devil songs yet?' And I swear, his mom used to rearrange my CDs and sneak Christian pop songs onto my mix tapes. Mrs. Baxter honestly thought I was a satanist for a while."

Tucker burst out laughing.

"'We can't have her tracking those demons into our house!'," Sam said in a high pitched voice, "'All that black, she must be a lost soul that God has sent to us to save!'"

Tucker composed himself, "Oh my god, that bad?"

"Yes," She said seriously, "And Dash used to come into my room and make fun of me for it, throwing holy water and stuff on me. It was so aggravating."

"Living in a crappy place like that, I guess you should be kinda grateful to be stuck here."

It got quiet.

Perhaps it was true, perhaps it was not, but it was a wake up call for Sam. Was she really grateful to be stuck in the mansion?

Tucker made a noise that sounded like a hiccup.

"I'm sorry." He half-whispered.

"What? Don't apologize. I've had worse, and besides, you're right, I am kind of grateful.. in a sick way." Sam tried to lighten the mood.

Tucker looked down at his lap awkwardly.

"The only thing really messed up about this place is that Phantom guy. What a creep-o, am I right? Honestly, this place could be so pleasant if he wasn't here." She babbled.

Tucker looked pale.

"What? Don't tell me you have a crush on him, because you can do so much better." She teased.

"Sam don't say that." He said gravely.

"What?" She chuckled tensely.

Tucker said nothing. She felt compelled to continue, to fill the silence. It was an odd habit of hers.

"You know," She frowned, "I'm not stupid. I know there's more to this that you and Phantom are telling me. Why won't you tell me what happened with the explosion? Usually I can only remember what people tell me, but I can remember other things. I remember seeing you at school. I remember the Fentons. I kind of remember Phantom, that he wasn't always as sick and twisted as he is now. But I can't accept that things are like this, and I won't accept that Phantom guy. He's a psycho, and he's not the boss of me."

She paused, risking glances at a very uncomfortable Tucker. In a quieter voice, she added. "He's not the boss of you either."

Tucker looked at his hands. "But he is, Sam, don't you see? We're lucky he's in the mansion and not wrecking Amity."

"No he isn't," she said firmly, "He's just a no good, lonely, obsessed ghost. And I don't care if he hears me or not."

He bit his bottom lip, finally making a small moment of eye contact. He was telling her something, without saying the words.

"What?" She hissed quietly, "Are you kidding me?"

He shrugged. "Thought you said you didn't care."

"Well I didn't know he would actually be listening! Are there hidden spy cameras, or mics or something like on TV?" She whispered incredulously.

Tucker laughed. "No, that's so dumb. Man, you ask a lot of questions. Why are you whispering?"

She shoved him. "Because if he's listening shouldn't I be quiet? Where is he? How will I know if he's here?"

"You won't," Tucker said simply, "You don't have a ghost sense."

"Ghost sense?" She repeated.

"Yep," Tucker continued, "Us ghosts can tell when there's another ghost around. It's kind of like a hiccup-y thing."

"So before," She began, "You didn't hiccup because you laughed too hard."

"Please," He snorted, "You're funny Sam, but not that funny."

"Well can you tell him to go away? When will he leave?" She looked around, trying to find a hidden sign of his presence.

"I dunno, I'm honestly shocked that he hasn't appeared yet. He's probably pissed off about something I said." Tucker responded, a bit intimidated.

Sam scowled. "Well if he doesn't have food for me, he can hit the road."

Tucker frowned at her.

"What?" She said, raising her voice, "I don't give a shit about what he thinks, if he isn't going to feed me, then he can piss off."

"I think this is just your natural abhorrence to authority talking." Tucker said, his eyes wide in silent warning. He spoke with caution, his eyes darting trails to remind her.

"Authority?" She scoffed, unfazed, "Please, to have authority over someone you have to have power. Phantom has no power over me."

"Sam, you shouldn't say things like that." Tucker said anxiously.

"So I'm just supposed to sit back and let him do whatever the heck he wants?" She asked irritably.

Tucker shrugged.

"That's ridiculous! No wonder he's such a spoiled brat!" She threw her arms out dramatically.

"Sam," Tucker cautioned.

"What?" She said tauntingly, "Am I supposed to act frightened? In that case, please, almighty Phantom, spare m-"

The wind was knocked right out of her, her air supply cut off abruptly as cold hands wrapped around her thin, pale throat, so hard she could be certain ugly purple finger prints would stain the skin there.

Her back was thrown against the wall painfully before she could scream in surprise. Her spine ached from the impact. She tried to gasp in surprise, but panicked when she found that she could not. Her arms were useless; they flapped around against the wall, searching for something to use in defence. When no such items were found, she moved to pushing on his shoulders.

Phantom curled his lip, revealing a dangerous set of pearly white teeth. "You should watch what you say, Sammy, and don't bite the hand that just might feed you."

He turned his head, eyeing her like a predator, his sharky teeth enforcing that image into her mind. He stared without restraint, hardly noticing she was struggling at all. She gripped his arm, but it did nothing except make him smirk at her sad attempt to remove his hand.

She felt light headed, her vision beginning to blur as she fought for what little air was possible.

He squeezed harder for a moment, just to scare her into thinking he would kill her, to get some sick enjoyment out of watching her lavender eyes glaze over and widen in panic, before dropping her to the floor, leaving her to cough and wheeze on the ground. She touched her neck, tears in her eyes at the sudden shock.

She glared after him.

"Phantom-" Tucker started, frightened. His eyes darted from Phantom to Sam.

"Please, Tucker," Phantom hissed, "Spare me your half-assed explanations."

"Shut up already," Sam croaked, "And leave us alone!"

Phantom was on her quickly, flying across the room at an ungodly speed. "I don't think you realize your position, _shrimp_."

She was unrelenting, shaking getting to her feet. She placed a hand on the wall for support. "I don't care if you kill me."

He looked astonished, if only for a moment. It quickly faded into an amused, ugly grin. "Tempting."

She shuddered, clenching her jaw in rage. "Why are you keeping me alive then?"

He kept up his strange, psychotic smirk, for a moment, just looking at her. But when her words finally hit home, he looked away from her piercing glare.

"Oh, I know why," She said sarcastically, "Do I remind you of something, Phantom? Of being human? Of the city you used to love?"

"I NEVER LOVED THAT CITY!" Phantom snarled, a green blast destroying an antique lamp in the corner of the room.

She flinched back.

"All that city ever did," He breathed heavily, "Was make me work. I never loved it, _he _did." He spat the last sentence, like a bad taste in his mouth.

Sam gazed at him, a mix of confusion and, perhaps sympathy, softening her glare. _He did work_. She remembered those days in school, when an ugly, deformed human would faze through the walls and cause chaos. Phantom, or 'Inviso-Bill', as they used to call him, would save them. He'd put things back in order. Perhaps Phantom simply suffered from split personality. The idea was baffling.

"He?" She inquired, her eyebrows furrowed.

Phantom looked surprised, his eyes wide. It made him look like a puppy, the way he put his head down. He just didn't answer, like he was retreating back into himself.

"Sam-" Tucker began.

She ignored him. Slowly, so slowly, she approached him.

_A memory flashed_.

It was brief, like recalling a dream that you thought you'd forgotten long ago. It started as an idea, a small detail. _Just a piece. _She could only see her hand outstretched in comfort, much like it was now. Then it was gone.

She was encouraged by the piece, excited to see more. She was a crazed woman, one on a hunt. She only wanted to remember, to see those few days before the accident, and it seemed like Phantom was the only one who could help her fill in the blanks.

She gingerly put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Phantom-"

_Big mistake._

He chuckled darkly. It started quietly, but nevertheless, made her step back. It grew louder, and louder, until it was filling the entire room with fear.

"That's what I like about you, Sammy," He turned turned slowly, "So easy to fool."

"SAM!" Tucker screamed.

But she already hit the floor.

* * *

><p><em>Okay, so a lot to cover, I apologize for the information rush.<em>

_**Just to review:**_

_Sam did go to the Nasty Burger after it exploded._

_She did see Phantom._

_Phantom wasn't quite Phantom yet_

_Phantom knew her._

_He made her forget (painfully)_

_**One (or two) spoiler question(s) because it took me so long to update:**_

_Who do you think told Sam about the accident?_

_What happened to Danny?_


	5. Chapter 4: Eet

_A/N: Okay, I realize I'm really late. _

_I'm sorry guys, but to make it up to you I'll put more spoiler questions at the end. The title for this chapter is a Regina Spektor song. It talks about forgetting things, so I figured it was relevant._

_I tried to add to this chapter, but all my starting paragraphs just didn't seem good enough to me. So I figured, I'd rather give you a little bit of good, hard earned work, than a lot of shitty, half hearted work. I'll try and get the next one out quick._

_I know I don't say this enough, but I really, honestly appreciate you guys. Usually my fics hardly even get three reviews in four chapters, but from you guys I've gotten 63. That's more than a lot of my other fics have gotten in 20 chapters. So I just wanted to let you know that even though I'm a shitty updater, I still really appreciate every single one of you from the bottom of my heart._

_Enjoy._

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 4: <em>Eet

_Her vision was fuzzy under the glaring white hospital room and flickering fluorescent lights. Her eyes were forced into a squint to make out blurred figures and a definite shape of the room. Wires poked into her arms, and though she never was a fan of needles, she hardly felt them. A machine beeped steadily in her ear, and soft whispers could distantly be heard. At first, they seemed far, only certain words clear and the rest sounding jumbled and muted. Few were recognizable, but one stuck out._

"_She's waking up." The familiar, compassionate voice pointed out._

"_Now Mrs. Manson we must remind you," A tense voice warned, "Her condition may still be quite fragile. She was unresponsive for a week due to head trauma."_

_The words 'Mrs. Manson' struck a chord inside of her heart. But she couldn't remember why… She was running - but why? There was pain - but why would there be pain?_

"_M-mom?" She said groggily, her vision bleary. It was hard to see much other than silhouettes and the blaring white of the room._

_The figure pursed her lips. "I'm afraid not, sweetie."_

_She could make out silvery hair, kept away loosely in a ponytail. "Grandma?"_

"_Yes," She sounded excited, "Yes it's me Sam."_

_Doctors scuttled around, talking in hushed tones and scribbling notes onto their clipboards. A single vase of flowers sat on the nightstand next to her bedside, followed by balloons and candies. Sam didn't know many people, but they were probably from business partners or acquaintances of her parents, attempting to gain favor or stay on good terms._

_Sam sat up, but regretted it immediately. The blood was rushing to her head; she felt dizzy, achey, and all she wanted was to simply go back to sleep. She looked down to find Grandma Manson's wrinkled hand on her arm to steady her._

_A doctor stepped forward. "Samantha, how are you feeling?"_

_He carried a small flashlight, but she'd seen enough on TV to know what it was for. She flinched back with a panic-stricken face. No way was that white coated man sticking another bright thing in her eyes._

_The doctor put his hands on her shoulders. "Sam, I just need to do a checkup. You're safe here. Do you remember me?"_

_Safe - why wouldn't she be safe?_

_She did remember him. He was her family doctor, the one who'd bandaged up all her past injuries from adventuring. He was the one who'd put a cast on her arm when she fell out of the tree next to her window. How could she not remember him?_

"_Doctor Anderson." She said with a small nod._

"_Yes," Doctor Anderson replied, "How are you feeling?"_

"_Where are we?" She grabbed a fistful of the soft hopital blankets to rip them off and make a run for it. Grandma Manson, however, knew her well, and immediately sat her back down, laying her arms down on Sam's lap. She gave the rebellious girl a look that rivaled her own, one that said, 'try it if you dare'. _

"_You're at a hospital, honey, in Amity." Grandma Manson confirmed._

"_Why am I here?" She reminded tense, her posture still hunched forward to lunge._

_Grandma Manson was none to withhold detail. She was coined for her 'ability' to over-inform, and though Sam couldn't remember much, she remembered Grandma Manson's crazy stories about her nights in Cuba with the waiter boy. And yet, Grandma Manson had none too much to say, only responding with a simple explanation, and remaining scarce on detail. "You hit your head, Sammy, nearly gave me a heartattack."_

"_Samantha," The doctor persisted, receiving a heavy glare from the elderly woman, "Can you tell me about your physical condition? How is your head?"_

"_It's fine," Sam sank back, "I'm fine, I feel a little dizzy, but no nausea, my body hurts a little. I just wanna know why I'm here."_

_The doctor scribbled some last notes on his clipboard, eyeing a group behind him. "What can you remember?"_

_But as she recounted events, they seemed… Far off, like she hadn't truly lived them. She couldn't remember whatever made her end up in the hospital, couldn't remember why before, there was so much pain. She only had flashes; School, her parents, and the most piercing shade of green. _

_Her head burned when she tried to remember, like something had been burning that side of her brain. She crossed her legs as Doctor Anderson wrote down details, a furrowing in his brow that meant concentration. But something else was there - something she hadn't seen often in Doctor Anderson - a small wrinkle was creasing his lips, one that could only be seen as a small frown. _

"_Great," He said with a fake smile, "Mrs. Manson, can I speak with you in the hall?"_

_Sam scowled. Something was wrong, so horribly wrong with that frown, that smile. Her parents were gone - gone where? She'd hurt her head, lost memories, memories nobody seemed to want to explain._

"_She's still in a very fragile state," She heard Doctor Anderson say quietly, rushed, "Revealing too much, too soon will only make it harder. I suggest you go slow, let her heal fully before we explain the whys, whens and hows."_

_So something did happen._

_She closed her eyes, shutting them so tightly she could see colors. _

_Remember, she said to herself. _

_But she couldn't. Nothing came to mind._

_Well, nothing other than a luminescent, emerald green._

* * *

><p>"Where are you taking her?!" Tucker screamed.<p>

Voices jumbled together. The situation seemed oddly familiar - but she wasn't in a hospital.

Tucker was upset - but why would he be upset? They were laughing just a second ago.

"That's none of your business." Phantom hissed.

Phantom's arms were wrapped around her, and she didn't dare open her eyes. Well, wouldn't if she could. The state seemed familiar - she could hear, feel, but never move. Was she in another coma?

_Phantom._

She wanted to shriek, to thrash around in his arms.

He'd done it _again._

Again - but she'd only just met him 3 days ago.

Her head hurt - it burned.

"Shhh," Phantom cooed, "Sleep, my Sammy."

And she wanted to, she really _really _wanted to, because her head _burned _so badly. But it all seemed so near, yet so far. She could feel herself on the cusp of something important, like words just on the tip of your tongue, ones that you just can't seem to remember.

"YOU'RE HURTING HER!" Tucker bellowed, sounding more ghostly than he'd ever before.

"It's only temporary," Phantom argued, "She'll be better soon, so long as she's a good girl and goes to sleep."

"No, no, no," Tucker chuckled insanely, "You can't do this again."

"I can do whatever I want." Though her eyes weren't open, she could feel that icy nonchalance.

"If you keep doing this something bad is gonna happen!" Tucker screamed at him, "You can only take so many pieces before the whole puzzle is gone!"

Phantom kept walking - or flying? - at a speedy pace.

"How could you do this?" Tucker's voice sounded far, "You're not him. Whatever was left of him you destroyed."

"You're right," Phantom replied, "I'm not him. It's your own fault for having high hopes."

And distantly - so far away - she could've sworn she heard Tucker crying.

"Sleep," Phantom coaxed, a gentle, gloved hand caressing her face.

And she finally did.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sleep, my Sammy," A silky voice commanded.<em>

When she woke, there was sunlight pouring in through the translucent, smoky grey curtains. The window was open - it was a cool, October morning.

The room was lush, but small, the wooden floors only holding one small, royal red carpet. The twin bed was fitting to the room, white metal bars serving as a headboard. Silky grey sheets caressed her skin - she felt dirtier than she was sleeping in such expensive sheets. She needed a shower.

"You're up." She jumped at the voice.

It was familiar - yet so _unfamiliar. _It made her skin crawl. She turned, and found him standing in the doorway.

"I figured," He said, moving towards her, "Since you were so curious to see the attic before, I'd let you stay there for a couple nights."

But she couldn't have been there only a couple of nights. It had to be a couple _weeks. _She knew the smell of fall - it was her favorite time of year. There was no doubt it was October. But why would it matter if it were October in the first place?

She was confused, scared. The boy - or man? - seemed so recognizable, the whiteness of his hair, the paleness of his skin, but she just couldn't put a name to him.

"Where am I?" She demanded, stepped back to a dresser, hoping to find a weapon.

His face fell. "Don't you remember?"

Her eyes flickered down in panic. _Was she supposed to? _

He sighed. "Well, you don't need to be afraid of me." He eyed the way her hands paused by a vase. She was never very trusting, but he wouldn't want her any other way.

"Sammy," He said warningly.

That warning tone sent alerts all over. "Tell me where I am. Who are you?" She picked up the vase, feeling a bit guilty for the expensive ivory.

He chuckled. "Still as lively as ever. I am Phantom."

"_Most people call me Phantom, the owner of this estate."_

She touched her forehead, shocked at the sudden deja vu. She shot her head back up when she realized it was not the time to worry about a headache. "Where am I?"

"You're in my estate," He said with a surprised and nervous laugh, "Where else would you be?" He continued to approach her.

She held the vase up higher. "Don't come any closer!"

He paused, his hands up in a surrender motion. "Alright Sammy," He said quietly, a bit wounded, "Just put the vase down."

"You're a ghost." She said in a questioning tone.

"Yes." He replied, "A friendly one. Sam, you _know_ me."

Her eyes filled with tears. "THEN WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER YOU?"

Phantom moved forward cautiously,one hand out in front of him like he was approaching an abused animal. "Sam, I don't know. I'm here to help you. You're safe here."

She softened, lowering the vase, but never losing eye contact. "Help me?" _Why would she need help? And why did she get the strange feeling he wasn't the one to give it to her?_

"Yes," Phantom said, relieved, "You're hungry, you're scared. You probably have questions."

"_What you know is what I let you know. Stop snooping around here, and stay out of things that have nothing to do with you." He countered ominously. _

Her hand flew over her mouth. _Where were the voices coming from? _When had that happened? Did it really happen? "Make it stop." She said it vulnerably, and not entirely voluntarily. She just needed to _remember._

"Shhh," He murmured, "I can help you. Will you let me help you?"

"Yes," She nodded desperately, "Yes please just tell me what I'm missing. Where's Gram?"

Phantom stiffened.

"Is she okay?" Cutting hunger pains made her put a hand on her stomach. "I'm so confused."

"Let's start small," Phantom said with a smile, "I'll feed you, then I can answer any questions."

She nodded, feeling more like a small child and less like a 17 year old girl.

"Good," He said, "Come with me."

And even though the awful, twisty feeling in her gut begged her not to, she did anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Okay, so:<em>

_-Just how many times has Phantom done that whole 'forget this' thing to Sam?_

_-Does Tucker even know?_

_-What happened to Gram?_

_Now tell me your opinions:_

_Do you think Phantom REALLY likes Sam, or is he just messing around?_


	6. Chapter 5: When You Were Young

**A/N: Hello friends! Happy Monday!**

**I have a new chapter for you. **

**As always, you guys are my heart and I appreciate every single one of you.**

**Warning: Expect a crazy plot twist that may or may not change everything.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: When You Were Young<strong>

_December 14th, 2013_

_It was nearly Christmas, and Sam Manson found herself deep in melancholy because of the barren grounds and clear skies. No snow had fallen yet, but the low temperatures and frosty air left her hopeful and optimistic. _

_The review days at school went brutally slow, a week that made her feel cramped, pressured, and incredibly tired. But she bargained with herself, saying that if it did snow before exams, then she'd know that everything was going to be alright. Still, it was looking grim, with only two more days until the first exam. She was almost envious of her friend Jazz, who started studying weeks ago._

_Sam was lucky to have Jazmine Fenton as her friend. She was one of the most caring, accepting people she knew (aside from her Gram, of course)._

_But for reasons unknown to her, Jazz had been distant that day, dashing to class as soon as Sam would walk into the halls and sending frigid, warning stares every time she attempted to approach her. _

_She frowned at the memory._

"_Gram?" She called from the stairwell._

_No answer._

_Grandma Manson and Sam were very much alike, both in wits and sense of style, so of course, Sam figured she might be in her room, lost in the pages of a book. _

_Though usually, she would smile to herself and fetch a small, after school snack, today it was unexpected. She was both disappointed and surprised to not see Grandma Manson downstairs already, buried in a pile of boxes, tinsel and lights. Today was not a usual day; it was the day decided to decorate the Christmas tree they'd picked last weekend, guaranteed the tallest and greenest on the block._

_Her intuition was high strung all day, coming in erratic, pulling feelings and unpleasantly twisting her stomach. That particular sense was what kept her from stubbornly confronting Jazz, and it was what pushed her to immediately climb the stairs._

"_Gram?" She called again, skeptically._

_She slowed in the hallway, a sense of impending doom alive in the atmosphere like a horror movie, more specifically, the scene where a character would inevitably be murdered in cold blood._

_She flipped light switches on as she peeked through different doors. She was far too concerned with finding Grandma Manson to realize that it was completely out of the ordinary for the lights to be off the first place; five o'clock December meant early nighttime._

_She dreaded the last door at the end of the hall, previously her parents' room. If Grandma Manson was in that room, it couldn't be good. She stepped slowly, her footsteps sounding heavy on the floorboards in the silence that seemed ten times louder than normal._

_Hesitantly, she twisted the knob, internally giving herself a pep-talk about how irrational it was to be so worried like this simply because Gram hadn't answered her, a sign of denial at its best._

_The door opened, and Sam, eager to prove herself right, marched through the frame, her arms crossed over her chest. _

_The room was chilly, the window wide open and the baby blue curtains blowing violently in the freezing gusts of wind. There was something to be said about the way they danced, knocking into each other and nearly hitting the ceiling; it was, in the worst way possible, ominous, as if the window had only been left open for her to find. She took it as a sign, letting it momentarily distract her from spotting a very familiar silver cane, thrown onto the floor and glinting in the moonlight. _

_She rushed to the window._

_She nearly fell to her knees in despair. _

_She choked on a shocked sob three times before she screamed, in a fit of agony: "GRAM!"_

_But as she'd grown to expect that day, there was no answer._

_Only now, she'd understood why._

_Laying face down on the pavement from the third floor window was Grandma Manson, her lavender dress unmistakable despite the distance._

_And, as if to mock her, pieces of white snow fell elegantly from the sky and onto the ground, not missing Grandma Manson's body._

* * *

><p><em>October 4th, 2014<em>

"She's on vacation," Phantom said, belated and utterly pleased with himself as he watched Sam scarf down her third helping of Chinese food.

"Vacation?" She questioned around a mouthful of lo mein.

Grandma Manson had done a lot of things, but she was not such a selfish person. Most than that, they'd grown so close, she doubted Gram would even leave the house without her.

"Yes," Phantom replied, handing her a napkin, "She wanted to bring you with, but you insisted she take some time off for a while. You wanted to stay with me."

"And Gram happily allowed me to do so?" She wiped her face, taking the insistent feeling in her gut as hunger.

"No," Phantom leaned in suggestively, "You didn't tell her _that_ part."

It was believable, yet some pieces seemed suspicious. Gram encouraged Sam to have friends; it was hard to decide whether or not she'd be against her staying with one. Grandma Manson was usually so accepting, and dare she say it, hip. Perhaps it was that Sam herself did not want to take the risk Gram wouldn't allow it. She supposed that was why she decided to keep that particular detail herself, especially since her 'friend' was not your typical classmate. She decided, ultimately, that Gram was lenient on a lot of things, but would not approve of her staying in a mansion, near the edge of town, with a ghost boy.

She pointedly eyed Phantom's sudden, close proximity. She wasn't sure why, she just felt a vast amount of discomfort whenever he'd lean in, or worse, try to _touch _her. After she'd casually shake him off, or give a subtle sign she was uneasy, he'd remove himself with a cold stare, displaying body stiff body language assumedly placed as anger. Yet when she'd try to get a firm look at it, decipher it, he'd fix himself, and any signs of displeasure would melt away.

"I see," She said to fill the awkward silence as Phantom eased back with his arms crossed, "When will she be back?"

Phantom clenched his jaw. It was one of those rare times where he resented Sam's curious and stubborn nature. "Soon."

Sam's skeptical side-eye transformed into a heavy glare. Her eyes were hooded, distrustful, the beautiful violent becoming electric. She kept her voice the same, but a small edge to it told him that, should he deny her this information, she'd trust him less than ever, which would lead to her walking out the door. "Soon when?"

Phantom stared back for a long while, his eyes narrowing just a fracture before his face erupted in glee. A barking laughter jostled his body back, his hand smacking his knee. "Oh Sam," He laughed heartily, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, "You really are something."

She was unmoved, staring blankly with her eyebrows raised in ever-changing wariness.

"You're so suspicious," He stopped immediately after, as if such laughter were something easily summoned, "I already told you, you don't need to feel threatened by me. We're old friends." He looked down, his bashfulness looking a bit artificial. "Maybe even more."

"Umm, I don't mean to be rude but," She said hesitantly, "You are a ghost."

He shrugged. "Yeah? What's your point?"

She snorted, huffing in disbelief. "A ghost and a human? More than friends? How does that even work?"

"Well," He smirked, "I could show you… If you want."

She scowled. His advances were becoming too obvious for her tastes. She had no answers for him, she'd only just met him… Or, rather it felt like it. And for some odd reason, he just sent her the most awful feelings.

"I think I'm done eating now."

"Right," His face fell, "Well then you should probably get some rest."

He was quick to get up, though his movement in itself seemed sluggish and lazy. He pushed his chair in, shooting glances her way every now and then.

She scoffed. _He was sulking._

"Phantom-" She called. He stopped in the door frame. "H-have I done this before?" It was an easy question, but she hated the way she sounded, that vulnerability that was so unlike her making her stutter and wring her hands underneath the table.

She didn't see his ironic smirk. "Not that I know of, but you told me your Gram mentioned something about it to you once."

"I see," She looked down at her plate. "Thank you," She added in a quieter voice, one filled with more compassion than skepticism, "For dinner."

He nodded, his face partially hidden. "Of course, any time."

* * *

><p>It was a restless night.<p>

The moment her head hit the pillow she'd dreamt of fire, of striking blue eyes, of charming smiles and pretty lies, of phantom and his malicious atmosphere. She'd dreamt of her Gram, and white snow and silent halls. And then she'd jolt awake, as if any more would make her head explode.

If Sam had any doubts about Phantom lying about knowing her, of being safe, they were dispelled when she walked into the room he'd set out for her. The sheets were deep, ivory blacks and violets, a fine silk, of course, and the bulky black comforter was decorated with swirly amethyst vines she traced with her fingers. It was heaven on her skin.

But more than that, it was just so _her._

Goth books lined beautifully on a shelf, not to mention the best of Edgar Allen Poe. Tim Burton films stacked near the TV; Edward Scissorhands, the Corpse Bride, the Nightmare before Christmas, only the greats. A huge set of CDs and mix tapes were collected in the corner, filled with selective music of her tastes. Lastly, but surely not the least, scary movie posters stuck to the dark purple walls, oddly similar to the ones she used to have in her room at home. Perhaps he'd brought them here for her.

But the stay was supposed to be temporary.

A soft, fuzzy black carpet caressed her feet as she stepped out of bed, stretching for a moment and smiling to herself. Yes, she certainly did love the room. But the wardrobe was the best part.

Phantom was obviously well off, because all of her clothes were made of very fine fabrics and of expensive brands. It was odd; she was sure her parents had bought the same brands, but she'd never worn them. They were always in absurd colors and trimmed with frills and ruffles. And yet, she felt wonderfully content in them now, not just because they were in her color this time, but because she felt a strange connection to her parents in them.

She opened a drawer to her nightstand and swiftly pulled out a flashlight with a black rubber handle. She clicked it on and off a couple times, chuckling to herself in the yellow light. Yes, the mansion was medieval, and she was basking in the irony of carrying a flashlight through the 18th century halls.

She wrinkled her brow at a sensation of deja vu.

When an ache followed, she shook her head to banish it.

Her door opened with a creak.

_The door opened with a loud creak, the sound echoing in the room and the halls in the silent night. _

Her hand flew to her head. Her world warped for a moment, the doorway blurring and appearing in dizzy sets of three. The room spun; she stepped back to hold onto something.

Sam had learned and understood many different types of pain. There's physical pain; the kind that stings and aches, the kind you kiss away with optimism or suffer through and be thankful when it's over. But there's also psychological pain; the kind that makes you sweat and crumble to pieces in the dark, the kind that really hurts the most because sometimes it just doesn't _heal_. But her pain was difficult to explain.

She'd often think it must be psychological, since pain that was psychological could sometimes cause physical pain if bad enough. But she knew it couldn't be, because although they may come when she tried to remember things, it just didn't _feel _right.

Arguably, psychological trauma could be held accountable by _both _the person who inflicted such pain, and the sufferer who refuses to get help. But Sam wasn't trying to hold onto it, honestly, she hardly thought of it, and for that reason, she _knew _it wasn't her fault. Call it intuition, but she knew someone had done something to her, and her prime suspect was Phantom.

But if school bullies had taught her anything, it was that you had to be sneaky. Asking dangerous questions leads to threats and bad situations, and charging forward was a brainless tactic in this case. No matter how much she wanted to tear him a new one, she knew it would be harder to escape that way, and even harder to find her Gram.

After the strong, internal pep talk, she squared her shoulders and headed down the stairs, that incessant pulling feeling practically dragging her by her hair.

_Go find him, _it whispered, _he needs you, _it assured her. And she listened to it, because although she had no idea who she was searching for, she knew it was important.

So she pointed her flashlight at the stairs and stepped quickly, leaving her other senses alert for any signs of Phantom.

* * *

><p>It was nearly four in the morning, and yet, Sam Manson was wide awake, staring blankly at the end of the hall and wishing she had shoes on.<p>

The basement seemed more like a prison chamber than anything else, and she felt chills tiptoe down her spine every time she looked around. Her shoulders shook almost violently.

It was concrete, almost every inch of it, with thick, iron doors lining the walls. Stray rocks gathered in corners and dull greys were lit only by her flashlight. And yet, at the end of the somewhat short hallway was another light, the fluorescent flickering almost inconspicuously.

This one door, very peculiar indeed, was causing most of the horror and strange curiosity inside of her. Though the others offered no clue as to what was inside and seemed more like the doors to office cubicles rather than to dangers untold, the door at the end of the hall had a small, square window, barred of course. That door seemed the most like a prison cell, and it made her feel anxious almost to the point of fleeing as fast as her feet could take her.

But, though small and very vaguely, she could make out a desk, with paper and what looked like a figure, hunched over it.

Her hands shook.

_Go to him, _her body told her, _it's why you came._

Hesitantly, she stepped forward, holding the flashlight out in front of her like a weapon.

Lost in her fear, she stepped on a rock and gasped in shock. She pulled up her leg, and seeing no damage, continued forward.

The door was close now; the figure became clearer.

He was human.

"Hello?" She said to him, meant to be a call to get his attention, but it was hoarse with her dry throat and frightened mind.

She was only two steps from the window.

"Hello?" She called louder.

He looked up in annoyance, but his features quickly changed in an instant.

The window slammed shut.

Furious green eyes glowed in front of her. "What are you doing down here?"

She stepped back and nearly fell backwards.

"_Well?" _He snapped.

"I-I-" She struggled for words. His eyes were menacing, insane even, and so _hauntingly _familiar.

"Come on" He growled, lifting her around her waist and holding her tightly to his side.

He flew her up through 3 stories, wanting her out of there so badly he thought not to ask her, to explain, or even to introduce.

But introductions would not be needed.

She knew who Phantom was now, and she already knew who was in the basement.

Phantom had come too late.

She was deceived, and convinced he'd been lying to her. He was nothing like who she thought he was, not even a bit similar to the nice boy who'd bought her dinner and decorated her room. He was conniving, a kidnapper, and possibly a murderer. She was not safe with him, how foolish of her to believe she could be after such a short time was never safe with him, he was a stranger for god's sake! How could she trust a stranger? She wasn't stupid, so why, _why _did she feel so wonderfully close to him, and yet so agonizingly afraid of him? Why hadn't she seen the signs?

She couldn't understand.

All she could see was _him, _the closest link to the explosion in Phantom's basement, the answers she needed in a closed off cell, hidden from the world.

But she wasn't going to ask questions.

Not right now.

She'd already decided that charging forward would be brainless, and she'd have to be sneaky about an escape plan, for her _and _for Danny.

Yes.

She'd seen him, after all, those piercing blue eyes were unmistakable, not with that shaggy black hair and _especially _not when they seemed so familiar. He felt like home, but she hardly knew him. She wanted to help him so badly, and yet she only knew him by name.

_Danny Fenton, _she thought wistfully, an odd sensation she'd long since forgotten blooming in her chest.

A small, fracture of an image flashed in her mind.

_He smiled a goofy grin at her, his cheeks tinted pink. "Thank god I met you Sam."_

Her head ached.

She thanked god, she mused, that she was in her bed before she fell asleep in Phantom's arms.

* * *

><p><em>*Laughs evilly*<em>

_PLOT TWIST._

_So now does that last question about Tucker make sense?_

_What do you guys think now?_

_Do you think Tucker knows?_

_And what do you think about Phantom now? Does he still like Sam?_

_The story is progressing quite faster than I imagined!_

_But it makes sense, because Phantom has already known her from WAY back (apparently). Things will slow down when/IF she gets her memories back._


End file.
